221B
by Until the End of the World
Summary: Set in the time between House leaves Stacy in bed in Need to Know and the rooftop scene. Stacy wanders around the apartment reliving moments with House. Thirdperson omniscient narraration from Stacy's POV. Flashbacks galore!
1. Laundry

**_Disclaimer: _**_If I owned them, Stacy would still be on the show snogging House's face off. They belong to David Shore and his minions, the cruel geniuses. _

2:08 A.M. That's what Greg's watch reads when she wakes up from the most blissful sleep she's had in years. He must've forgotten the watch when he left earlier; Greg wasn't the kind of man that liked to be held down by a schedule. Unless there was a puzzle to be solved; then he was relentless.

Stacy set down his watch and let her head lay down on his pillow for a minute more. Inhaling his scent just a little while longer. It didn't smell very strong, she could never place the ingredients of what made that scent; it could only be described as "Greg". So many people tried to pick Greg apart, to dissect what made him the way he was; she couldn't even pick apart his scent. Stacy didn't need to know what mixture of habits gave him that intoxicating smell for it to bring all the memories rushing back to her. And at 2 A.M. while she's lying in his bed that's all she needs to know.

Stacy rose from the bed at 2:10. _Okay, one step down, a few more to go._ First thing: find all articles of clothing. This proved to be a rather daunting task considering the state of Greg's apartment and the manner in which they had literally clawed their clothes off each other and strewn them about his apartment the moment the door was locked as they made a stumbling path towards the bedroom. She eventually found her bra on top of a copy of Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment and her pants beneath the piano bench. Her blouse proved to be a bit of a problem, but for now she settled for wearing one of Greg's well-worn t-shirts. She doesn't think much of Motley Crue, but when she opened the closet it looked like the smallest ones. Must've been one of the early wash-it-yourself laundry experiments.

She smiled at the memory of their first time doing laundry together. A fairly mundane task, but her brain had committed it to memory. She had been surprised that he actually had a fairly good grasp on the concept of separating the lights from the darks. The fact that they had to be washed at different temperatures however…

"Darks in cold water, babe."

"Right… can't have the dark ones getting hot water privileges like the light ones now can we?"

"Hey, I once had to defend a client who was being sued for inter-clothing relations; I'm a lawyer, you should trust me with these things."

"I would say that I don't trust you _because_ you're a lawyer, but that one was too easy."

That was when she decided that the shirt he was wearing definitely needed washing too, and his jeans, and he decided that even though her t-shirt was white it was definitely time for civil rights in the great country of washing machine.


	2. The Piano

**_Disclaimer: _**_If I owned them, Stacy would still be on the show snogging House's face off. They belong to David Shore and his minions, the cruel geniuses._

Second task: make up for the sin of wearing a Motley Crue t-shirt by putting something decent on the stereo. She paused when she came to the CD rack. He hadn't thrown out her collection. It was one of the few things she had forgotten to take with her when she left. She fully expected it to be gone. Her CDs didn't even have a collection of dust on them. It pained her to think of what that meant. It meant he had to have been reminded of her every time he played them. Greg loved his classic rock, but she had introduced him to the quiet, soothing tones of alternative. Grant Lee Buffalo. Perfect. She had bought Mighty Joe Moon because of the song "Honey Don't Think". The first time she had put it on Greg had been so obsessed with "Happiness" he hadn't let her get to track 11; he just kept hitting repeat every time she wasn't looking. He made up for it later figuring out how to play "Honey Don't Think" on the piano. The song wasn't written for piano, but it had never and will never sound better than it did coming from Greg's skilled fingers stroking the keys of his Steinway Grand.

The third task is the hardest of all. Make a decision. Greg likes to think while sitting down; she likes to wander. She walks around the apartment for a minute or two longer, it's cluttered but still far too big for one person.

The piano is the biggest piece of furniture in the place. The dark oak instrument with its ivory keys is the centerpiece of his living room; it's impossible to miss. She sits down and tries to recall a simple melody but her thoughts only turn to her memories of Greg sitting at the piano.

Often times he'd simply lay his head down on the wood while his fingers glided across the keys. He'd be so deep in thought that his fingers would stop, completely unaware that the mind they belonged to still sung a tune. She's observed him in that deeply pensive state many times; it's one of the countless reasons she finds him so attractive. He's never really still. His hands are always in motion. For Valentine's Day one year she bought him two balls. They're easier to take to his office where there's no piano to coax a tune out of. One was the cheesy fortune-teller type made to look like an 8 ball. The other was a gray and red over-sized tennis-ball.

"Two big balls? Are you trying to tell me something here?" he said when he opened the package.

At this she laughed and said "Never could accept a gift, could you? The world isn't out to get you Greg. They're for you to play with when there's not something better for you to put your hands on."

"Something better for me to put my hands on… I thought that was why your office was just down the hall. If I had known we were going to give meaningful gifts that were really some sort of sex code I would have made you some copies of my Bay Watch tapes. Carm"

"--- If you bring up Carmen Electra you won't get your real present tonight."

Greg promptly shut-up at that statement, pulled out her present and tossed it at her while mumbling something like "When did women get so empowered?"

Her gift was a certificate for free piano lessons every other day at 7:00 PM with "Dr. Gregory Von Beevenhousen". She laughed at the ridiculous name. He could be so cheesy sometimes. Apparently he had noticed the way she openly stared every time he came within two feet of the piano.

She only ended up getting four or five lessons before the infarction. It had been too long since she'd played. Grant Lee Buffalo has long since run its course. She thinks the whole world must be silent for it to sound so peacefully quiet. Inside her head it's a different story.


	3. 221B

**_Disclaimer: _**_If I owned them, Stacy would still be on the show snogging House's face off. They belong to David Shore and his minions, the cruel geniuses._

She gets up from the piano at 3:24 A.M. The time that she can spend in this simple limbo is running out. She wanders about the apartment. She thinks she can see the good times and the bad times painted on the walls.

She remembers buying the place with Greg. Neither of them ever formally acknowledged that they were moving in together. It was more like Greg left the Princeton classifieds sitting on her kitchen counter with a few circled in red ink and the words "Meet me here at 4," written next to an ad that was heavily marked with red ink and a note on the bottom that read "I'm getting cavities from always forgetting my toothbrush and Wilson keeps asking me why I need a waxing kit. I love you, Greg."

The "I love you," sealed it. She met up with him at 4. Apartment 221B. She met him with a smirk.

"Your Sherlock Holmes fixation is starting to get out of hand."

"So says the one petitioning for a Murphy Brown DVD release."

She gave him a playful shove as she followed him into the place (somehow he had convinced the owner to loan him the key for the afternoon -- she didn't want to think about how he had managed that) "Let's just see if Holmes spent all his money on dope or if he actually put some of it into living arrangements."

The apartment was nice. Not spectacular, but there was nothing wrong with it, it was within their budget range, close enough to the hospital and Greg was obviously ridiculously attached to it because of the address. It was modern without being tacky and had the warmth that came from being lived in. It only had one bedroom but all the rooms were a proper size; whoever had designed it obviously hadn't cut corners (literally) so they could advertise two bedrooms and a small corner that was supposed to fit a normal-sized human being and desk.

"I could live here."

"I think my toothbrush would approve."


	4. The Couch

**_Disclaimer: _**_If I owned them, Stacy would still be on the show snogging House's face off. They belong to David Shore and his minions, the cruel geniuses._

Of course, the times weren't always so happy. If she's going to make a rational decision (practice making rational decisions and becoming better at arguing and manipulation than she ever intended to be were what came from years in law school) she can't forget the bad times. It's a different couch now, she notes as she moves to sit down with a glass of Greg's single malt scotch. ("Oh, there's my shirt," she thinks to herself as she spots it sticking out from between the couch cushions. She quickly switches from the Motley Crue tee.) She realizes with a pang of guilt that the couch they sat on together before was very deep. This one is shallower, it must be easier for him to get up from; he must have bought it shortly after she left. Of course he would never tell her that they needed a new couch. Of course he wouldn't have told her. Especially her.

There were fights before the infarction too of course. It wasn't the act of arguing that bothered them, everyone expected them too; it was the fact that they knew the arguments could have been so easily avoided. The arguments themselves, the bickering, each of them consciously aware that some of it was only a contest to see who was best at verbal manipulation that day, that wasn't the stuff that hurt. No, the bit that stung was the bite that came from inside both of them, the knowledge that they would never have to hurt each other if each only changed a little bit.

"Stacy, just what the hell – besides distracting me from my soap I mean – do you think all your pacing is going to accomplish?" he said from his sprawled position on the couch, his voice raising just a little in volume with each word.

"Why does it have to accomplish something, Greg? Does the fucking anomaly bug you? Then figure it out. Maybe talking to me in the two hours we see each other away from the hospital would help you more than watching another one of your god damned soaps." She was close to tears with the last words and stormed off into the bedroom before he could see. She was rarely this emotional but today had been a tough one and putting up with Greg's irritability was the last thing she wanted to do that night.

She was still in the bedroom an hour later and had sufficiently calmed down enough to only glare at him as he walked in rather than her previous plan of chucking the nearest object that struck her fancy straight at his head. He came in with his head slightly bowed and his immense, translucently blue eyes that ranged from indigo to the chemically perfect chlorine water you saw in swimming pools trying to sneak a glance without her noticing. No one could fail to notice his eyes. She didn't know why he even tried to hide them from her anymore. If anything, looking her straight in the face with the puppy dog look only served to help his case. Right then, he looked like he was still expecting a flying object. Truthfully, she was more upset with what he hadn't done than anything he had done.

"Are you going to tell me, or are you going to make me ask why you were upset enough to be pacing like some sort of jungle cat in the whole four feet our living room provides?"

He sighed as he realized she wasn't letting him off easy this time and moved across the room to sit with her on the bed. "I'm sorry, okay? Now if you don't tell me what happened I'm going to assume you're feeling better and refusing to tell me out of spite. In which case I'll bug it out of you until you tell me. So really, it's for a good cause if you just spill now," he said as he moved to put his arms around her.

"Well it just sounds stupid now. Would've packed much more of a punch if you had let me stay mad at you and let me scream it in your smug face."

"It's official. Women have no idea what they want. I give up," he said as he lay down on the bed, pulling her with him.

She let him pull her down onto the bed and snuggled into him, resting her head on top of his chest as his arms held her in close. This type of open affection was rare from Greg. Even after sex he kept a little space between them on the bed, even if he still touched her, rubbing her back or just lying on his back as she fell asleep next to him was more common. She was so happy to have him just lying close to her like this when she needed him to be gentle and caring, both things that he tried his hardest not to be most of his life. She loved that she brought this side out of him and had a sneaking suspicion even he didn't mind it all that much.

"Byrne came onto me today. You'd think he'd have some sense after getting sued for sexual harassment in the radiology department. But I can't dump the case. I already told Cuddy I'd take it, Shane and Diana already have a back-up of cases and there's no one else to defend him." She could feel the tension leave her body as she told him and at the same time felt his tense up.

"Page me the next time you have to have a consult. Have it somewhere open so I can hang around without him getting paranoid. He won't try anything while someone else is looking. I can even get Wilson to come. Everyone's afraid of a man that wears a pocket protector."

It was a simple solution what someone else might have made a very complicated problem. He didn't dramatize it any more than it needed to be. It was something she had to do and he did his part to make it as easy as that situation afforded. She loved this part of him too. His intelligence and ability to break down problems surpassed even her own.

"Thank you," she said as she kissed him long and deeply and let his hands tangle through her hair.

"Mmmph. Just promise me you'll talk with your mouth first instead of your feet next time."

"You mean like this?" she said as she leaned down and captured his mouth with hers for the thousandth time.

"Yeah, just like that."

It's 3:40 A.M. in his apartment and all she can think of are the good times.


	5. Against the Wall

**_Disclaimer: _**_If I owned them, Stacy would still be on the show snogging House's face off. They belong to David Shore and his minions, the cruel geniuses._

Greg's apartment is dimly lit, yet she can still find her away around without any trouble where most would stumble. She gracefully weaves her way through the many piles of medical journals (heavily contrasted with the stacks of expired gossip rags), forgotten stacks of sheet music, poetry books (she loves that he reads it, but he's never been the type to read it _to_ her) and all the other objects he keeps around to distract himself. These things are just as much a part of him as she is.

It's not just his apartment anymore. No, the rooms of 221B hold her memories as well. As she walks through the hallway she drags her hand along its wall. It's smooth and cool to the touch. The walls hold thousands of memories that she never wants to let go. Long suppressed memories come rushing back in this place. The memories are so clear that she can almost relive them. The feeling is addicting. He wouldn't be so hard to let go if she wasn't addicted to this feeling.

She sits down on the floor, her back against the cool wood of the apartment as the tears begin to flow with the realization of what she's started again and what never should have been forced to an end. Her elbows rest on her knees and her hands rest on her head as the guilt hits her. The teardrops fall silently, they leak out one by one. She's held them back for so long she's amazed at the silence. This catharsis of emotions should be a violent torrent… her body wracked with great heaves of exhaustion as her heart overflows and empties emotions long reticent … but it's really more like the summer rain. It drizzles slowly and you can almost feel every individual droplet hit your body. She lifts her head upwards and keeps her eyes squeezed shut. She grips the cross around her neck. She's never believed in any religion, she just wears it because her mother gave it to her. She doesn't know if she's looking for punishment or redemption; she doesn't even believe that either will really come, but sometimes she wishes that someone else would make the hard decisions for her.

It was a selfish decision. She's tried to tell herself different all these years but as skilled as she is in convincing her clients, she can't lie to herself. The middle ground surgery had little to do with Greg's happiness and so much more to do with her own. She was saving his life. What she failed to realize was that everything was going to change because of it. She still lost Greg, at least the Greg she had known, the Greg who had talked to her, held her, and loved her. She had lost that.

This wasn't supposed to happen. She didn't expect to find him again after the infarction. She had thought the Greg she knew was gone forever. She's come back to discover him hidden deep inside the walls that pain and regrets construct while you're not looking. One thought gives her more hesitation than all the others. While she has found the man she knew, he is still changed. She knows, that as much as he tries to hold it back, she knows, that deep inside him, every time he has to take a pill, pick up his cane or look at his own hideously scarred leg, he will secretly blame her. She knows this because there's no need for him to look at her with that pained and broken face; she feels that blame in every silent moment between them.

The last thing she planned on was falling in love with Greg all over again. Like everything in this world, retrieving and reviving this love will cost a price; or maybe it already has. She's already in too deep to avoid making anyone hurt. Greg expects to pick up where they left off; she knows she's led him to believe that, and if she does go back to Greg as she so desperately desires, Mark will be left broken and alone. Someone is going to get hurt.

She knows she's not the only one to blame herself for Greg's pain.

"The last time you left, I was the one stuck picking up the pieces!" Pieces, pieces of what? When she left there were no pieces of Greg. He wasn't broken. He was just gone. She would've stayed for pieces.

"Oh right. He cried himself to sleep every night. That so sounds like him." She deflects Wilson's pleading and questioning with sarcasm. Even though she knows Wilson knows him as well, if not better than she does. She doesn't want to remember that in five years House hasn't moved on while she got married.

"He's been pining for five years!"

"You're being dramatic."

"No. Actually, I'm underplaying. This is me being restrained."

"It was one kiss." Then.

"Are you being intentionally thick? This was not just a one-night stand. You can't toy with him."

"I'm not. He's probably toying with me. I don't know what I'm doing." If he is toying with her he's a much better actor than she though. Wilson has a way of drawing the truth out of people and he'd succeeded once again with Stacy. She doesn't know what she's doing, she still doesn't. She only knows that Greg still feels right, but right and easy are not two things that often go together.

She's at an intersection now. Past, present and future are colliding and after this, nothing will ever be the same again. Not with Mark and not with Greg.

At 4 AM she gets up and prepares to leave the apartment that her mind has already slipped back into calling "home". She gathers her things from the apartment she expects to come back to all too soon and walks toward the door. On it, is taped a note from his prescription pad. "Prescription for heart condition: Roof at sunset".


End file.
